


Over Ground and Under Ground

by khorazir



Series: Over/Under [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, London, Pining, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Trains, travelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After nine months of dismantling Jim Moriarty's criminal empire, Sherlock finally takes the Eurostar to return to his first great love: London. The train can't seem to move fast enough ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over Ground and Under Ground

**Author's Note:**

> This is another installment of my Over/Under-series, set between [_Over Cloud and Under Cloud_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/595947/chapters/1073805) and [_Over Hill and Under Hill_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/477582/chapters/828977). It was mostly written, quite fittingly, on the Eurostar.

When the train manager announces there is going to be another stop at Calais, Sherlock wants to scream. He can barely endure the one here at Lille. Another stop means having to listen to the litany of passenger announcements in three languages (French, English, Flemish) for a yet another time since their departure from Brussels. He knows them by heart now: Eurostar, ICE – there were countless more announcements on the trains he has journeyed on since leaving Vienna about a day ago. At least there is no person sitting next to him to get on his nerves.

The seat next to him is currently occupied by his small messenger bag, the only luggage he carries with him. He has travelled light ever since leaving England nine months ago. It’s amazing how little you need to get by. True, he’s had some of his brother’s funds at his disposal, but he made very little use of them, not wanting to grow too dependent on the British Government. More often than not, he travelled far less comfortably than second class Eurostar: on foot, the back of trucks, hidden away on a ship across the Atlantic because he had to avoid attention, even on horseback on one occasion. His accommodations in the past three quarters of a year have varied accordingly, from five star hotels to sleeping on the streets or under a drift of fallen leaves in the forest. Nowhere he stayed for long. It’s been too dangerous. And now he is tired to his very bones, his brain sluggish, his eyes stinging. He should try and sleep, but he can’t. Excitement and anxiety are keeping him awake. Only about two more hours and he’s back in London. At last.

After what seems like ages, the train is finally ready to depart. Passengers navigate the corridor with their unwieldy luggage, looking for their seats. A young woman (French, business studies major, engaged, owns a cat) approaches the empty one next to Sherlock. He glowers at her. She looks at him, checks her ticket again, and moves on. Sherlock knows he must practically radiate hostility. This train, even though it is said to travel at almost 200 mph on its high-speed track, has yet to live up to that reputation. For him, impatient and yearning to set foot on English soil once more after so long, it seems to be crawling along with the speed of a snail.

An elderly Kentish couple sits down opposite him, chattering animatedly while they cover more than their allotted half of the table with an early supper. Sherlock rolls his eyes and exhales loudly through his nose, averting his head to gaze out of the window and silently imploring them to not address him, and not to offer him any food. They look like they would, well-meaning and polite and friendly as they are. Both retired for some ten years, two children, three, no four, grandchildren, judging from the photos in the man’s wallet when he puts away the tickets; he ran a small business that has been taken over by the daughter; she was a teacher, music, piano? Violin. Still plays regularly. Interesting. Both try to stay fit – walking and gardening, active members of the National Trust – and eat healthily: sandwiches, cheese, tomatoes, carrots peeled and cut up, an apple each, a flask of coffee, the smell of which hits Sherlock’s nostrils with full force as the man pours it. It makes his stomach rumble audibly. Damn it.

He _is_ hungry, quite desperately so, but he needs to keep his mind sharp and alert for what awaits him in London. Should he ever get there considering how they’re slugging along. Until then he can do without food. Until he is back home. Some coffee would be nice, though. Or tea, even better.

The train sets in motion again, leaving the murky underground station of Lille Europe, and the mind-numbingly boring litany of announcements starts again. Are people really that stupid and don’t know how to label and store their luggage properly? And it’s not that hard to find the onboard restaurant, is it? It’s not as if you can stray far left and right when on a train. Sherlock snorts in derision. Idiots, the lot of them.

As the train picks up speed, the grey suburbia of Lille peters out into a flat rural expanse of fields and pastures, some hemmed in by low hedgerows or drainage ditches. Most likely all this used to be one large bog centuries ago. Now the earth is dark and heavy where it’s recently been tilled, white seagulls and black crows hunting for worms on the naked fields. Where there is grass, it’s an almost poisonous green despite the grey, overcast skies and the failing light. It’s late March, and the further west he’s been travelling, the more the hold of winter seems to lessen. Was there still snow in Austria despite its more Southern latitude, here spring is already busy at work, struggling against clinging winter that doesn't seem to want to shift this year. It doesn't feel right, thinks Sherlock. It should be spring when he arrives in London, with the first daffodils out under the trees in Regent’s Park and the cherry trees in Chelsea in flower. Chances are there's going to be nothing of the sort, only a few sorry snowdrops.

Small villages and farms fly past, rows of poplars and pollarded willows. The occasional church spire is visible in the distance, small roads linking the settlements. It’s flat, boring, nothing to arrest the eye. Rain begins to splatter against the windows, brought on by heavy, storm driven clouds from across the Channel. At least it's not snow.

The couple across the table have finished their meal and have packed away the food, but not the coffee. Sherlock tries to ignore what the scent does to his innards. He’s feeling sick, which has nothing to do with motion sickness. It’s a mixture of fatigue and nerves. There were times during the past nine months when he thought he would never see England again, when he was sure he would die indeed and not just pretend to be dead. And what then? Would anybody have cared? Mycroft, perhaps, but for anybody else he’d been dead already. Perhaps his empty grave, the one John and Mrs Hudson still visit occasionally, would have been filled at last.

He closes his eyes, trying to calm his jittery nerves. He could keep telling himself all will be well once he arrives in London, but he is too much of a realist to believe the lie. He has changed. His friends have changed. John has moved out of Baker Street a while ago. He is again working at Sarah’s surgery, full time now. If the photographs Sherlock ‘acquired’ while in the United States are to be believed, he has started to see a woman regularly. Sherlock tries not to think about it and fails, his heart clenching in his chest. John is moving on. And why shouldn’t he? It’s not that there was ever more than friendship between them. Or was there? Sherlock has had a lot of time to think about it and is finally ready to admit that yes, there was – is –, from his part, at least. He’d better delete it, though. John will hate him when he realises what Sherlock has done. Sherlock can count himself lucky if their friendship can be restored to a shadow of its old glory. To hope for anything more … no, it won’t do. Heartbreak lies that way, and Sherlock doubts he has any heart left for breaking.

Mrs Hudson has not rented out the flat again. That’s good news, at least. Mycroft prevented that. Sherlock still wonders what he told his former landlady. Lestrade is back with the Met after having been forced to take some ‘vacation’ while an investigation was lead against him and his ‘questionable methods’ of employing amateur (and fraud) detective Sherlock Holmes. Ultimately, Lestrade was not stripped of his rank, but from what Sherlock has learned the DI’s reputation has not survived untarnished. It seems to be improving now that apparently Sherlock’s own name has been somewhat cleared, both officially and in the public’s eye. He was both surprised and, admittedly, touched by the amount of support amongst Londoners in the time after his Fall. Graffiti and flyers stating belief in him popped up all over the city. There had been a campaign on twitter and that other site, the one with the images. Flowers had been left at Bart’s and on the steps of 221B. People began to congregate at Speedy’s to discuss conspiracy theories. Nobody knows who started it, although Sherlock has his suspicions. Sentiment, all of it. But secretly appreciated all the same. If there is one thing his desperate hunt all over the world has shown him, it is the fact that he is not as immune to sentiment as he pretends.

“Coniferous tree with three letters?” the husband on the opposite side of the table asks his wife as both are scribbling in their crosswords.

“Fir,” she replies.

“Doesn’t fit. Last letter is a ‘w’.”

“Yew,” says Sherlock before he can stop himself, opening his eyes and sitting up straighter. Blast, now it’s happened. They won’t leave him in peace now until they reach London. But secretly he’s glad about the distraction, mostly from his own impatience and anxiety. _Impossible know-it-all_ , John always called him. And it’s true. He is. A bloody show off. And he hasn’t had a chance to show off for so long.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” says the woman. “Didn’t think of that.”

 _Obviously_ , thinks Sherlock, biting his tongue just in time lest it slips out. It’s best to be civil. Had he voiced his thought, it would have been a bit not good. _Lesson learned, John, see?_

“They used to make longbows out of yew,” says the man. “You know, the ones they used to beat the French with in the Hundred Years War. Henry V and all that. Ever handled a longbow, young man?" 

Sherlock flinches at being addressed so directly. _Be civil,_ he reminds himself. “Actually, yes.”

There’d been a case once, before he met John. A man had been found dead at a reenactment event, an arrow sticking in his back. Sherlock had investigated undercover at the event dressed in 14th century garb before ‘borrowing’ some of the longbows and two dead bodies from Bart’s morgue to try out the effects different arrowheads, range and draw-weight had on the impact and damage of the missile. Even though finding the actual murderer had been relatively simple, he had enjoyed the case, the archery reminding him of his fascination with Robin Hood shortly after his pirate phase. At that time he had passionately watched _Robin of Sherwood_ on the telly, some one or two years before he was sent away to Harrow. He’d loved the show, and had made himself bows from hazel to practice shooting in their garden, Mycroft’s old stuffed animals being the unfortunate targets.

“Requires quite some strength, doesn’t it?” enquires the man.

“Yes.” Sherlock recalls seeing the remains of a medieval archer at an archaeological excavation once and noting how the skeleton had been shaped by the man’s occupation of drawing the heavy bow since adolescence. He’s about to divulge his knowledge, but stops himself. The man opposite doesn’t look like he’s interested in a lecture on the effects of medieval fighting techniques on the human skeletal structure.

“The vertical six-letter term for animal den is ‘burrow’,” he says instead.

The man looks down. “Oh, cheers. Where’re you from, then?”

“London.”

“Been over for the weekend, like us?”

“No, I’ve been ... away for a while.”

The woman looks around for his luggage, frowning slightly but apparently deciding that he must have stowed it in one of the racks at the end of the carriage. “Oh, I like travelling by train. It’s faster to fly, of course, but I don’t like the sitting around waiting at the airport. And there’s so little leg space on most planes. It’s much nicer to be moving and seeing the landscape and all that.”

Sherlock nods. Those were not the reasons he took the train, not the prominent ones, at least. Well, the wait at the airport wouldn’t have been easy to endure, much less than this way of travelling. But more than that, it didn’t seem appropriate. To just take off somewhere and a few hours later land at Heathrow or Gatwick or one of London’s other airports. No, despite the time lost, he needs this ‘earthier’ approach, needs time to prepare himself mentally. He never thought he would. Sentiment yet again.

No, this is just right, this way of creeping closer to his destination. Not to mention it would have been more challenging to fly with his brilliantly manufactured yet still fake passport. Controls exist at the Eurostar check-in, but they aren’t as strict as at international airports. Moreover, the train ticket had been cheaper, booked more or less last minute. So he’d taken the ICE from Vienna to Frankfurt, another ICE on to Brussels to then change into the Eurostar. He’s been awake for more than a day, not having slept the previous night and not at all on the various trains. And while there is a deep tiredness lingering, at the moment it’s being held at bay by adrenaline.

“Oh, we’re almost at the Chunnel,” the man says. “We’re about to stop at Calais.”

“They didn’t use to do that,” his wife chips in. “Years ago, they’d go on directly on to England, only stopping at Ashford, I think. Back when the train still terminated at Waterloo.”

Sherlock remembers this. He has been on the Eurostar a couple of times, but somehow he’s managed to delete most of these journeys, the tedious announcements foremost.

“How long have you been travelling?” asks the woman.

“Nine months,” Sherlock replies. _And I can feel every minute of them like a ton of bricks weighing me down,_ he adds in thought.

“Gosh, that’s long. You must have seen a lot.”

“Yes.” Too many dark and dreadful things, and too little time and nerve to appreciate the beauty along the way.

“Still, no place like home, eh?” says the man with a smile that looks and feels like a hearty slap on the shoulder.

Sherlock cannot help swallowing. “No place like it,” he replies tightly. If there is still a home for him. He knows where he’s going to go immediately after arriving at St. Pancras. Only one possible place, really. But will he be welcome there? He doesn’t know, and the uncertainty bothers him.

“Personally,” says the man, “I enjoy being abroad, but after a while you yearn for a proper cuppa. They don’t do decent tea elsewhere. And the French breakfast? Forget it. You get hungry again after an hour.”

 

**- <o>-**

 

The stop at Calais is mercifully brief, and then the dreary, rain-drenched scenery outside is replaced by darkness as they enter the Channel Tunnel.

“Do you remember my friend Marjorie?” the woman asks her husband. “Her husband got terribly upset when they went to Paris on the train and they were in the tunnel. They had to call a doctor because he was so worked up. And that one time the train got stuck in the tunnel and couldn’t move neither forward nor backward they showed on the news? Imagine the poor people.”

Even though he is not troubled by enclosed spaces, in his current state Sherlock considers such a delay an utter disaster. For a brief moment he imagines himself raging at the stewards and fellow passengers until a medical person sedates him to keep him quiet. Actually, some calming substance would be helpful now. He’s twitching with nervousness. But no, he hasn’t used in years and is not going to start again. Not even the darkest hours during his time abroad have caused him to revert back to old habits, and in some cases what he has seen and done might almost have justified it to help him cope. But he _has_ coped, hasn’t he, _is_ coping without chemical aids. At least this is what he tells himself when he wakes from another nightmare.

He watches the couple do their crosswords, now and again helping out the other. There is a quiet harmony and understanding between them. A symbiosis, like mushrooms and trees: deathcap and beech, fly agaric and fir. They can communicate without words, these two people, by minute gestures and expressions, easy to miss but for the most observant spectator. It’s like they’re playing a duet and their instruments are absolutely in tune while each yet follows its own melody. It’s beautiful to behold, even to someone like Sherlock who isn’t interested in people (unless they’re dead) and often regards their interactions with disdain. But this, watching the couple, it touches him. He loathes himself for it, but the fact remains. It touches him because it seems so achingly familiar. It used to be like that with him and John, back at 221B. Before. It’s gone now and Sherlock knows it won’t magically reappear, their easy camaraderie, the trust, the friendship, the … whatever else there was between them, always hovering, sometimes glimpsed yet never fully realised and recognised for what it was, never mentioned, never acted upon. Gone.

Sherlock swallows hard. He’s never craved the company of others. He used to regard it as a weakness. Dependency, the need for other people’s approval, love, touch. From early on he learned that it was better to be on his own, not having to rely on other people because they’d invariably let him down. They’d leave. They always did. But he let John in, and now he can’t delete him again. He’s tried, seriously. Part of him doesn’t want to, that’s the problem. But it hurts. He thought he’d steeled himself against that kind of pain years ago. Not enough, it seems. It’s been hurting for nine months, like a cut that won’t heal, and he fears it won’t stop even if he meets John and is allowed to explain.

The woman rummages in her handbag and produces a packet of Maltesers. She offers some to her husband, then holds the bag out to Sherlock. He shakes his head, but she doesn’t withdraw it, rattling the contents invitingly instead. Sighing, he reaches out and takes a few. John likes them, he recalls, and a stab like a knife in the chest area causes him to wince. Not a knife, though. He knows what knife wounds feel like. This is more like a dull pain, a fist tightening around his heart and squeezing mercilessly. He hesitates, knowing that the taste will bring on even stronger and more painful memories, but then pops one of the Maltesers into his mouth. An image of John sitting in his armchair and throwing Maltesers into the air to try and catch them with his mouth flares up, and involuntarily, he smiles. Maybe he should buy a packet as a peace offering. Then again after what he’s pulled a shipload of the chocolates won’t suffice to appease John.

The chime of text messages announces the arrival on English soil even before the train shoots out into the evening light. Sherlock retrieves his mobile and scrolls through the texts sent by helpful British phone service providers announcing their fares. He deletes them. One message causes his hand to hover over the screen, though.

 _Welcome home, little brother_ , it reads.

Sherlock snorts. Of course Mycroft has his fake ID monitored and knows exactly on which train he is travelling.

 _Piss off_ , Sherlock texts back, but he smiles as he does so. Despite their differences, he cannot help being grateful to his brother. True, Sherlock has been convenient for dealing with some matters for Mycroft’s people outside the ‘normal’ channels of international relations, more often than not stretching or completely ignoring the bounds of legality. He was like a rogue field agent doing their dirty work. He was well equipped and once or twice even rescued or protected, but most of the time he worked on his own. Still, without his brother’s influence and resources, he knows he would not have survived. 

Outside, the Kentish countryside is streaming past. It’s not raining on this side of the Channel, but the ground is wet and dark clouds are still racing across the sky. The sun, briefly visible as it approaches the horizon, flames in a fiery red before it is swallowed up again by cloud. It will be almost completely dark by the time they reach London.

“I liked it better when the train still ended at Waterloo,” the woman complains. “Now we have to go back there to catch our train to Sevenoaks. I don’t like taking the Underground. It’s always so crowded.”

“The trains to Sevenoaks leave from Charing Cross,” corrects Sherlock.

“Oh right, so they do,” says the husband. “But it’s farther from St. Pancras on the Tube than from Waterloo, anyway.”

“Well, we could have booked to Ebbsfleet,” says the woman. “But there wasn’t a special offer like to London,” she adds, for Sherlock’s benefit. He doesn’t want to hear about their booking arrangements, even less than he wants to hear about yet another stop at Ebbsfleet.

The train is crossing a river by a flat bridge, the tracks running alongside the motorway. That’d be the M2 and the river Medway. Sherlock gazes out at the grey water pushing in from the Channel with the tide, swallowing up the mudflats with their ripple-patterns and hungry seabirds. It has always fascinated him how strong the tide flows in the Thames, switching round the current, the waves facing landwards during high tide, and sucking away the waters to speed them out to sea during low tide. One really has to keep track of the tides in London when searching for bodies in the river.

They reach Ebbsfleet, but the stop is mercifully short. From their coach, nobody alights and nobody joins them. Sherlock gets out his phone again when the announcements start. No new messages. Who’d text him, anyway, apart from Mycroft? He’s still officially dead. However, his work isn’t quite done yet, and to tie up the last strands he needs to be resurrected, publicly, if possible. Sherlock Holmes must return to London, not James Sigerson, one of the alter egos he assumed and which he has kept until now.

The Eurostar dives into yet another tunnel, this one running underneath the Thames. Soon, soon they’ll reach London. It’s not far now. The train manager announces the time in England. Sherlock resets his watch, staring at the pointers. He’s been out of this timezone for the better part of a year now. It’s good to be back.

All over the carriage, people are getting ready, standing, stretching and beginning to retrieve their luggage from the overhead racks, donning jackets and coats. The woman opposite him puts away what’s left of the Maltesers, asks her husband whether he wants a last sip of coffee and whether he’s got their Oyster cards. He grumbles a reply, having started to read a seemingly interesting article about Parisian hotels in the Eurostar magazine.

Outside, London’s periphery becomes visible. Objectively seen it could be considered ugly: industrial buildings, skips, carparks, grey tenement houses, the occasional row of brick semis. But to Sherlock, it’s utterly beautiful, and he gazes out of the window enraptured.

The couple opposite have stopped bickering. The woman is watching him with a shrewd expression. “There’s nothing like coming home after a long time away, is there?” she states gently. Sherlock doesn’t want to, but he swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. He’s never pegged himself down for homesickness, but oh, he has missed this place. “Not long now, dear,” the woman says. “They’ve even cut out the passport controls. No more queues at the station. You can just walk out of the train.”

This is precisely what Sherlock does. He is first at the door, knowing that if he’d had to wait for people lumbering their huge suitcases out of the coach he’d burst. Most likely he’d have thrown around insults – well, deductions, really – which would have gotten him into trouble. Like this, he virtually leaps out of the train onto the escalator, hurries along the passages until he steps out into the huge brick, steel and glass construction that is the new St. Pancras International station. Old and new, tradition and modernity like so often found in London, here they are combined yet again. But he doesn’t bother admiring the architecture. The large hall feels stifling. He must get out, breathe the air, must feel London’s pavement under the soles of his worn brogues. Ahead, there’s the sign of the Underground, and the indicator for the Euston Road exit. He sets out almost at a run.

Up, up the passage and out. The noise of traffic hits him like a missile, as does the smell: exhaust fumes, sewage, fatty food from nearby eating places, coffee from the Costa round the corner, all mixed with the smell of rain, of spring. It’s London’s smell, he would recognise it anywhere in the world, and oh, has he missed it. He inhales deeply and a heavy weight seems to lift from his chest. For a moment he just stands on the pavement, heedless of the people streaming past him, closing his eyes and just smelling, listening, feeling. The roar of buses, cars and taxis going up and down Euston road, the dull rumble of the Underground, the faint screech of locomotives’ brakes in nearby King’s Cross Station. The murmur of conversation, of laughter, snatches of music from mobile phones and iPlayers from people jostling past. The heartbeat of the city, his city. 

He opens his eyes and looks around. Twilight, dark blue sky with patches of colour where clouds are illuminated from below (London’s sky is never fully dark, too much light pollution), orange glow of streetlamps, myriads of lights from houses, vehicles, traffic lights, a little girl with shoes that blink bright blue with every step. Red buses, taxis, delivery trucks, the occasional cyclist in a neon yellow protective vest, their bicycle’s lights blinking. People driving on the correct side of the road at last.

A woman slams into him and he startles. She murmurs an excuse (Italian, business woman, just arrived on the tube from Paddington, and before that from Heathrow, on the way to her hotel) and hurries on. Automatically he checks the inner pocket of his jacket for wallet and mobile phone. Not that he really suspects the woman of being a pickpocket, but he has lived too long now on the darker verges of society. Caution is ingrained in him. Everything’s still there. Right.

He also sets in motion, walks along the pavement to the corner from where he has a fuller view along Euston Road. Briefly, his glance strays east towards Penton Rise and Angel, just to get his bearings, to compare the images stored in his brain from nine months previous with the new input. Not much has changed. One or two shops and restaurants have changed owners, maybe, another facade is shrouded in scaffolding. Always evolving, moving, transforming, his city, like a living organism. And yet it seems like he hasn’t been away at all. He anchors the new images to his mental map and turns westward.

The sky is lighter here, dark, tattered clouds visible against the memory of a sunset. It would be, wouldn’t it? Light and dark. Hope and despair both lie in that direction, should he dare take it. Westward, down, down Euston Road to where it becomes Marylebone Road. King’s Cross, Euston Square, Warren Street (but not on the Circle Line), Great Portland Street, Baker Street. He knows them all by heart, despite barely using the Tube. He knows every street that branches off, the tracery of alleys familiar to him the way he knows the veins and arteries in the human body. This wide thoroughfare is like a major blood vessel, transporting traffic from West to East and back, unceasing. He sometimes wonders where the heart lies that pumps all these people along the roads like erythrocytes. Most likely it has a different location for every single person. For him, there is only one: westward.

He sets out, walking briskly along the pavement, swerving around tarrying pedestrians, tourists trailing luggage behind them to and from the station, a group of teenagers standing huddled together holding paper cups with some sweet coffee variety from the Costa.

Sherlock tucks at the collar of his pea-coat impatiently. The coat is too warm, too heavy, too short. He misses his Belstaff, the way it flares behind him when he walks at speed, the light feel of the specially woven tweed. Does it still exist? Has John kept it? Mrs Hudson? The design has been discontinued, you can’t buy it anymore, and at the moment it would exceed his meagre funds by far, anyway. One doesn’t throw away a coat like that, does one? Wouldn’t one keep it, for sentimental reasons?

Only when he barely avoids slamming into a _Big Issue_ seller who suddenly manifests in front of him he realises he has been almost running. His heart his hammering, but not because of the exercise. He might be thin and gaunt, strung out like butter scraped over too much toast, but he is fit, at least when driven by adrenaline like this. Still, perhaps some thinking might be in order. He can’t run the entire distance. Well, actually he could, it’s less than two miles, but even that would take too long and he’d likely collapse half way. He has waited for nine months, waited and pined for the city, his flat, his friends (and one in particular). And yet every second he loses now seems too much to bear. Take the Tube? No, he’s been crawling through the underground for far too long, the dark underbelly of society. He couldn’t breathe in the dark tunnels? Bus? Too crowded, too sluggish.

Taxi! He may just have enough cash for that. Most of his funds are still in Euros or dollars. For a moment he considers crossing the road to get to the right lane, but then decides that any cab could easily turn at the traffic lights down where the road divides, just behind King’s Cross Station.

Stepping to the kerb, he raises his hand, wondering whether the spell still works. There are taxi racks back at St. Pancras International, in case nobody stops. The sound of brakes, and a black car pulls up. Automatically, Sherlock gives the driver a quick over. Habit, ingrained ever since the Jefferson Hope case, the “Study in Pink” as John has entitled it. John, John, John. Calm down, Sherlock reprimands himself sternly. Now is not the time. He knows where John lives now, has done his research. But no, their meeting needs preparation. He needs to prepare himself, foremost. Jittery and high on nerves and adrenaline as he is now, the encounter would be disastrous.

The driver says something to him. Turkish origin but born in the UK, three children, lives in Hackney, wife is a teacher, roots for Chelsea. Sherlock realises he is still standing next to the car which in turn is holding up traffic. Quickly, he slips in, closes the seatbelt. He catches his reflection in the mirror as the car sets into motion to re-enter traffic. His hair has re-grown and almost returned to its original dark colour. Needs a wash, though, and a proper trim, because even though his wild curls hide irregularities rather well, to a trained eye it is plain to see that he’s been cutting his own hair for quite some time. He hates going to the hairdressers, though. The tedium almost kills him every time. He only goes there for the gossip when he’s on a case where it might be helpful. Perhaps Mrs Hudson will oblige, after she’s calmed down upon seeing him again.

His face is pale, dark shadows under his eyes and more lines around them. ‘Looks like twelve’, John had described him on his blog after their first encounter. Well, now he rather looks like fifty-two. His cheekbones are very pronounced, his eyes large in proportion to his starved features. He looks tired, ill, spent. He knows he would hardly have survived another month like this, running himself ragged with constant stress, constant danger, darkness, heartbreak. But it’s nothing that can’t be remedied. Mrs Hudson will fatten him up again, he is certain. He could really do with a decent meal, a cup of tea. Shower. Sleep. Later. First he needs to actually get there. And make amends.

“Address, sir?” asks the driver. Sherlock starts. They’re waiting at the traffic lights which presently switch to green. Oh yes, he hasn’t communicated his destination yet.

“Baker Street,” he replies, softly, reverently. He hasn’t dared voice the name ever since his Fall in case someone should associate it with him.

The driver makes a questioning sound. He hasn’t caught the word, no wonder considering how hoarse and broken it sounded. Sherlock clears his throat, takes a deep breath.

“Baker Street,” he repeats, his voice deep and smooth and confident now. Whatever lies ahead, he will find a solution. He always does. The dark times have lasted long enough, and even though there is a lot of work still to be done, he is back now where he belongs. First he needs to get back home, needs to get Mrs Hudson on his side. She will be angry, furious, even. Maybe she will slap him. Then she will cry for a bit. And then make him tea. And after that and food and rest (and a shower, God, he really needs one), he’ll consider how to face John. He has no idea how his friend (former friend?) is going to react. John has always been delightfully unpredictable. Sherlock doubts there is going to be an easy reunion. It’s going to be a long, painful process. But whatever happens, he will be more prepared to bear and accept it now that he is home. 

Taking a deep breath, “221B Baker Street,” he says again and leans back in his seat.

**Author's Note:**

> There's artwork at my tumblr: ["Sherlock after the Fall: Arriving"](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/41138612988/sherlock-after-the-fall-arriving-32-in-my)
> 
> [Hamstermoon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon) has made stylish bookcovers for my entire [Over/Under](http://archiveofourown.org/series/34840) series. Here's the one for this story: [Cover for _Over Ground and Under Ground_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2299688). Thank you so much!


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